This land is my life's work. It's not much compared to Boston society, but it's mine. I advertised for a wife because I'm tired of facing it alone. The wagon rolled to a stop in front of the house. In the yard, a dog barked excitedly, rushing to greet them.
"That's Rusty," Carrick said, a hint of affection warming his voice. "He's friendly, just enthusiastic." "Amelia watched the dog circle the wagon, her expression softening slightly." "Mr. Montgomery," she said, turning back to him. "I may have omitted parts of my past, but I was honest about wanting a fresh start and being willing to work hard.
I've never shied away from difficulty." She straightened her shoulders. "If you're still willing to honor our agreement, I promise you won't find me wanting in dedication or effort." Carrick studied her for a long moment. Behind the tear stained face and fear, he saw determination in the set of her jaw, the steadiness returning to her eyes.
"Let's get you settled," he said finally, climbing down from the wagon. "You've had a long journey. We can discuss the future after you've rested." He helped her down, noticing how small her hand felt in his, how light she was as he lifted her to the ground. Rusty bound it up and Amelia tentatively extended her hand for the dog to sniff.
"Hello, Rusty," she murmured. The dog wagged his tail, seemingly approving of the newcomer. Carrick carried her trunk to the house, pushing open the front door. "It's not fancy," he warned, suddenly seeing his home through a stranger's eyes. The sturdy but plain furniture, the practical layout.
He'd spent the past week cleaning until every surface shone, but it was still unmistakably a bachelor's dwelling. Amelia stepped inside, removing her bonnet. For the first time, Carrick saw her properly honey blonde hair pinned in a practical style, features delicate but not fragile, with those striking blue eyes that, despite the redness from crying, held an intelligence that matched her letters. It's lovely, she said quietly, her gaze taking in the large stone fireplace, the bookshelves filled with volumes, the windows that let in the late afternoon light. Did you build it yourself?
Most of it, Carrick acknowledged. Had help with the framework and chimney. He gestured toward the stairs. Your room is upstairs, first door on the right. I've prepared it for you, but if there's anything you need changed, just say so.
She glanced at him questioningly. "We're not married yet, Miss Foster," he explained. "The preacher comes through town every other Sunday. He'll be here this weekend if he left the sentence unfinished, relief visibly washed over her face. Thank you, Mr. Montgomery.
That's most considerate." Carrick carried her trunk upstairs, setting it in the bedroom he'd spent weeks preparing. He bought a new quilt from the general store, hung fresh curtains his neighbor, Mrs. Brennan, had helped him sew, and placed a small vase of wild flowers on the dresser. When he returned downstairs, he found Amelia standing at the window, looking out at the ranch. Rusty had settled at her feet as if he'd known her forever.
"I need to tend to the evening chores," Carrick said. The kitchen's stocked, but don't feel obligated to cook tonight if you're too tired. There's stew left from yesterday. She turned from the window. I'll prepare supper, Mr. Montgomery.